


ooo eee-ooo ah ah-ting tang-walla walla-bing bang

by kattyshack



Series: altogether ooky [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ((kinda sexy)), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M, Flirting, Ghosts, Humor, Immortals, Making Out, Massage, Meddling, Modern Westeros, Mutual Pining, Psychics, Romance, Soup, Texting, Werewolves, Witches, and... things........., that’s the ultimate theonsa tag now i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 14:29:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19889365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: The problem with a witch making your soup is that she has both the means and the will and so sheabsolutelymixes a love potion in with the hand-picked vegetable medley, and you can’t convince Theon otherwise.feat. werewolf!sansa + ghost!theon + witch!arya + psychic!bran(title from “witch doctor,” by david seville)





	ooo eee-ooo ah ah-ting tang-walla walla-bing bang

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSushiMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/gifts), [anniebibananie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniebibananie/gifts).



> for @thesushimonster + @anniebibananie, both of whom have summertime birthdays (i’m early for the first and i missed the other by a mile) and tag-teamed the specifics of this premise. you both consistently ruin my life and i love you dearly for it.

There’s definitely something in the soup.

Theon’s sure of it, for two very important reasons (which are supplemented by several other little reasons, thus creating a handy breadcrumb trail for him to follow to his not-at-all-irrational conclusion).

One, he had been fine, just _fine_ , hanging ‘round Sansa up ‘til now. She’s very _pretty_ and she smells like a meadow and sometimes when she touches him it makes him shiver. But Theon’s at least been able to (almost) convince himself that last bit is because he’s dead and he’s _always_ cold, so that’s fine enough. He’s managed fine and dandy for a couple dozen years now — hard to say for sure, when none of your mates age past a flattering twenty-five whereabouts, but the point is it’s been awhile.

Then he takes one slurp of soup and catches her eye and suddenly he can’t stomach another mouthful?

Not that he needs it, being ghostly and all, but eating’s a nice way to pass the time and now it’s been utterly ruined for him.

Two, Arya made it, and Arya is quite seriously a witch. This is just the sort of shit she’d pull. She loves to fuck with people — that’s why her grimoire is inscribed with the words _‘The Darkest Arts,’_ when really it’s just scribbled with herbal teas and fruit smoothie recipes and medicinal rubs and which blade is best to cut which plant, that sort of thing. It’s why she tells everyone that her familiar’s a wild bull and that’s why she’s got a tattoo of one on her hand, though that’s really just for Gendry, who doesn’t even see the point in utilizing his shapeshifter skills so gods only know when the last time he was a bull even _was_. It’s also why she wears that stupid Mickey Mouse wizard’s hat whenever she goes to the cemetary to collect dirt in the middle of the night, for no actual reason than to say “I need it for witch stuff” and make everyone profoundly uncomfortable.

And, okay, yes, so sometimes Theon likes to pretend that he can’t hear anyone unless they’ve cracked out the Ouija board to summon him, and sometimes he likes to go invisible and pop out of the ice box whenever he suspects Robb or Rickon of digging into his popsicle stash (and they _always are_ ).

Being a ghost doesn’t mean he’s all translucence all the time. He can be, if he wants — he can walk through walls and people and take a stroll across the ceiling if he fancies it. But why would he subject himself to that when he could just as easily be solid and feel Sansa touch him?

Though he does, admittedly, like to walk through her every so often, just to show her who’s boss.

None of that means he _loves her_ , though. Of course not. And it’s phenomenally unfair for Arya to poison him just to prove a point or mess with his head or… whatever it is she’s trying to do, Theon can’t say for sure because he’s never understood why witches do much of anything they do. It’s all very strange. Arya always smells like fucking patchouli, too, which wouldn’t mean anything to him if she didn’t poke her incense sticks into his chest whenever she feels like it; the scent _clings_.

And now here Arya is still, ruining his immortal life with her thick smokey perfumes and some love potion that’s disrupted an otherwise perfectly good cup of soup.

That must be it. After all, he knows she’s got a love potion or two in her misleadingly named grimoire, right next to the strawberries-and-cream smoothie that happens to be Sansa’s favourite. Nothing unethical, nothing forceful — Arya can’t make anybody love someone they don’t already, nor would she — but enough to make Theon think she’d added a drop to the soup so he’d have to confront his own feelings, which he does _not_ feel like doing, thanks. He doesn’t even have them.

Or — Sansa pats his head when she walks past, ruffling her fingers through his floppy curls as she goes, and he watches her with a wistful sort of ache in his chest that really can’t be blamed on the soup (unless it’s just heartburn, but the whole technically-dead thing nips that theory in the bud) — okay, so maybe he does. A little bit.

He looks down into his heavy ceramic cup, into the dregs of what had been a very nice soup, right up until he was forced to swallow his feelings right along with it.

Seven hells, but does he hate that the girl he fancies happens to have a witch for a sister.

*****

**BRAN** : You will die alone and emotionally unfulfilled at the ill-managed Dairy Queen at Greywater Watch, right before your chicken fingers are called for pick-up.

 **THEON** : i didn’t ask for my bloody fortune, did i?

 **BRAN** : We do not ask for our destinies to befall us; we simply meet them when the time is right.

 **THEON** : i’m already DEAD, by the way

 **BRAN** : Then STOP EATING all the Doritos.

 **THEON** : oi, piss off  
i’m going to die before i get my chicken fingers  
let me have the doritos, damn

 **THEON** : ps the reason that dairy queen’s so ill-managed is because jojen reed is always high like he thinks that’s going to open up his third eye further when really all it does is compel him to guzzle soft-serve right out the machine  
which is woefully unsanitary, btw

 **BRAN** : Don’t judge so harshly. We both know you used to do the exact same thing.

 **THEON** : it’s been thirty years since, at least  
i have GROWN

 **BRAN** : Haven’t grown out of relentlessly teasing the girl you fancy until she likes you back, though. Which won’t work.

 **THEON** : oh? your third eye tell you that, too?

 **BRAN** : No, that’s just my regular brain engaging in its otherworldly powers of common sense.

 **THEON** : har har har  
i don’t even tease her that much

 **BRAN** : Yesterday you threw a tennis ball down the hall and told her to ‘go fetch!’

 **THEON** : XD

 **BRAN** : Sansa’s a werewolf, by the by, not a schnauzer. Best case scenario one of these days she’s going to bite you.

 **THEON** : yeah that’s my best case scenario, too  
;D

 **BRAN** : Ugh.

*****

There’s nothing in the soup.

Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. Just various sorts of vegetables and spices and the like. But if Theon wants to be stupid, Arya figures she’ll let him get on with it. It’s not her fault that people leave behind their common sense when they die; that’s their business. Theon’s no exception to that rule.

In fact, the very last thing Arya would give to that anxious raving lunatic is anything that might lower his inhibitions and make him more bold. He’s hardly got a filter as it is. The only reason he hasn’t recklessly confessed his eternal (literally) love for Sansa is that his self-deprecation outweighs his carelessness, and he wouldn’t be able to stand the rejection he’s convinced he’ll get. He’d probably fuck off to some astral plane or other for a decade to mope it off, where he’d be even more miserable because none of the other planes have decent Wi-Fi.

Besides, he’s too scared to come back and find Sansa shacked up with another guy, so he sticks around to keep an eye on things without ever telling her jack shit about the way he feels about her.

It’s all fucking stupid, if you ask Arya. But whenever she thinks on it like she is now, she comes to the same conclusion: Theon’s too much of a goddamn mess _without_ her experimental love potions. She’d only make things worse. It might be funny to put Theon through the ringer like that, but she’s not about to stress Sansa out this close to the full moon.

So, no, obviously there’s nothing in the soup that’s not already supposed to be there.

The only reason she’s even bothering herself with any of this now is because Bran texted her — and Bran’s not even there when it happens, but he knows all about it, just as he does everything — _Theon reckons you put something in the soup_ , and had gone on to explain all about their friendly neighborhood ghost’s infatuation with their sister, as if Arya didn’t already know. Theon is quite seriously the last to know about his own crush on Sansa, excepting Sansa herself, who somehow doesn’t suspect a thing.

 _What’s he blaming ME for??_ she’d demanded of Bran, who by virtue of his psychic abilities bears the burden of explaining everything to everyone at all times.

_Because Theon doesn’t like to take responsibility for his own actions, lest they make him look stupid._

Well, Arya doesn’t need to be psychic to know _that_.

_He already looks stupid._

_Yes, but he specifically doesn’t want to look stupid to Sansa. He wants to be cool and aloof and occasionally invisible to keep her guessing._

_He is none of those things. Except occasionally invisible, but he only does that for a laugh or when he’s trying to nick the Doritos without anyone catching him._

_He thinks he can be mysterious. He knows it’s not working, but he buries it._

Arya has no choice but to take her brother’s word for it. Bran doesn’t make it a habit to read minds unless someone’s annoying him — he thinks it’s a bit too intrusive, not to mention that time he snuck into Robb’s head in the middle of a sex dream, which had nearly sworn him off the activity entirely — but Theon’s different. Something about his lack of mortal energy or some other shit Arya doesn’t quite get, but it makes his thoughts louder and harder to control, and Bran reckons it’s something to do with Theon’s feelings for Sansa, too — they’re loud and uncontrollable all on their own, and Bran’s senses eat up that energy like Theon scoffs Doritos.

The way Theon would like to eat up Sansa, too, Arya would bet her best athame, she’s that sure of it. But you don’t just proposition an irritable werewolf like her dear, usually sweet ‘til the moon rises high sister, so naturally Theon’s never said a thing.

He flirts with her, yes. Arya can’t turn a corner without finding Theon finding some way to drool over Sansa and somehow charm her in the same instant.

It’s like when Theon covers himself in plain white bedsheets and pops into the room shouting _BOO!_ and then he cackles like a maniac whenever he happens to catch someone off-guard. Which is, incidentally, a rather embarrassing oftentimes. The only person he never manages to crack is Bran, but then the thing about being a psychic is that you tend to see that sort of thing coming. Likely he wouldn’t be able to pull a fast one over on Sansa, either, if only he didn’t deliberately seek her out at the height of the full moon week when she’s tired and doesn’t care enough to remain unsusceptible.

Arya’s rather sure Theon only does it because after Sansa’s screamed and thrown something at him — usually whatever she’s holding, be it a biscuit or a mug or, on one memorable occasion, the hair dryer — she lets him wrap her up in his arms while he laughs and apologizes and squeezes her against him.

It’s sickening.

Sweet, too, she supposes, but you could hang the noose ‘round her neck and she’d still never admit to it. Just like Theon will never admit that Sansa makes his dumb ghost heart pitter-patter like a summer thunderstorm on a tin roof.

Now _that’s_ the sort of rainwater that would make for a good love potion, Arya thinks. She makes a note of it, and another to ask Gendry to test it for her. Such experiments have proven to end less-than-favourably before — her boyfriend’s nursed a fair few bouts of indigestion and once he actually chucked up little chocolate hearts for an entire afternoon — but usually it just ends with them snogging with a renewed sort of stamina, so he’s a good sport about it.

Anyway.

It’s all very confusing. It shouldn’t be, by all rights, but if Arya’s learned anything in her study of the craft, it’s that magic can’t conjure up any problem so well as people can — whether those people be ghosts or werewolves or whatever else what-have-you, doesn’t matter, if they can fall in love then sure as hell they can find a way to make it much more complicated than it really is, which is _not at all_ when the other person/ghost/werewolf/ _whatever_ loves you back — and that includes Gendry’s projectile chocolate candy hearts (he might disagree, but he’s not here at present so Arya doesn’t trouble herself with that).

Really, it’s probably for the best if Theon thinks she tampered with his soup. Maybe it will compel him to actually do something for once — something substantial, like tell Sansa he thinks she hung the moon that tortures her so, or something else along the lines about how much he wants to snog her.

There’s also the added bonus that, if he thinks Arya’s spiking the food, it’ll make him think twice before he eats all theirs when he doesn’t even need it. But mostly the first thing.

Never let it be said that Arya Stark isn’t a romantic, after all.

*****

**BRAN** : What you’re thinking of doing isn’t going to work.

 **ARYA** : technically it already has, and it wasn’t even my idea. theon came to his own conclusions about my soup.

 **BRAN** : He’s not going to drink anything that you made him “specially, just because.”

 **ARYA** : stay out of my head!!!

 **BRAN** : He’s going to smack it out of your hand in a panic and it’ll ruin your new boots. And he’ll say you deserved it for trying to poison him.

 **ARYA** : but i’m NOT trying to poison him. it’s the placebo effect, see? i just want him to think he’s drinking a love potion so he’ll finally tell sansa he wants to put a baby in her.

 **BRAN** : Ghosts can’t do that and you KNOW that’s a touchy subject for him.

 **ARYA** : ack. fine. sorry. you’re right.

 **ARYA** : so he’ll tell her something else, then. like how he wants to make hot ghost love to her idk what they do but my internet research tells me it can get pretty kinky.

 **ARYA** : like imagine fucking someone who’s invisible. wild.

 **BRAN** : I hardly need to imagine it. Robb’s not the only one whose sex dreams I’ve been privy to, and Sansa wants Theon bad.

 **BRAN** : In related news, I hate all of you.

 **ARYA** : is that why you’ve been staying clear of the house this week?

 **BRAN** : Yes. Sansa’s energy is always heightened around the full moon, and lately it’s been unbearable to be around her too much.

 **ARYA** : wow okay

 **ARYA** : dick

 **BRAN** : Say that again when you’re the one who has to feel your siblings’ sexual impulses. This is almost worse than every time Robb and Margaery are in a room together, which is saying something because you know how hulders are.

 **ARYA** : margaery sure does know how to seduce literally anyone, that’s true.

 **BRAN** : And Robb’s her favourite.

 **ARYA** : i fail to see how robb could possibly be anyone’s favourite.

 **BRAN** : To paraphrase Margaery, it’s because he’s hot and kinda dumb.

 **ARYA** : oh so he’s got like… gendry energy. i get it.

 **ARYA** : maybe we should ask her to give theon some advice.

 **BRAN** : He’ll manage on his own.

 **ARYA** : you seem pretty confident. what do you know??

 **BRAN** : I’d rather not look too closely into the details for obvious reasons. But it’s becoming clear enough that I’d suggest you stay over at Gendry’s for a couple of days.

 **ARYA** : yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet

*****

Sansa huffs repeatedly as she shuffles around the couch, nearly upending her very full mug of coffee, two sugars, three creams, and a splash of wolfsbane potion, as she sets it on the end table. Thankfully it doesn’t spill, else she would have surely screamed and given the day up as a lost cause when it’s barely seven in the morning.

She yanks her socks up, tucking the hem of her overlarge sweatpants into them, and folds her legs up onto the cushions as she slumps back, dejected and thoroughly indignant with her inability to sleep.

“Bleeding moon,” she mumbles into her first generous sip of coffee, because no one else is around to hear and there’s nothing much they can do for her, besides. Arya always has a batch of wolfsbane at the ready, but it doesn’t do anything for insomnia so Sansa’s more or less on her own here.

She often laments the fact that she couldn’t be born a witch herself, or a psychic or an empath healer like their mother, or something else less prone to sleepless nights and irritability. Her father and Jon take it in stride, and Robb and Rickon have a swell time running wild every month and indulging their baser instincts all calendar year, but it’s not really Sansa’s style, even if it is in her blood. All she gets for her troubles are sore muscles and an overcompensation of coffee because she can’t sleep the whole bloody week of the full moon, but she still has to be up and about because she’s got things to do and — more to the point — she is _not_ going to let the moon win.

Despite all her stubborn insistence, though, the stupid thing’s always getting the best of her. It’s not so bad every month, she’s just not used to it yet. Her father said it could be more difficult for the females, which strikes Sansa as outrageously unfair but, then, that’s the patriarchy for you, isn’t it? _Hrmph._

Aunt Lyanna had fared about the same in her first couple of decades. Even though there’s not much advice to be had besides patience, wolfsbane, and a good massage, it’s still nice to have someone to commiserate with.

Nice, too, that she lives with a witch and there’s a certain ghost who pops in who’s always happy to work out her sore back muscles.

Well, alright, so that’s not so much _nice_ as it is sexually frustrating. That’s another thing the moon does to her — it throws her entire body into whack, and Theon only exacerbates the problem because she’s whacked out on him as it is. So yes, nice as his hands on her are, she’s been avoiding them as of late because sometimes it’s just far too much to take.

He likes to play with her hair, too, to massage her scalp and scratch behind her ears and tease her, cooing, “Who’s a good girl? _You’re_ a good girl,” as if she’s a fuzzy household pet and not at all able to rip out his throat with a single swipe if she wanted to.

Or she _could_ , she has the ability, but he’s got abilities of his own to keep her more murderous flights of fancy at bay — though it hardly matters, he’s a ghost, at most he’d feel a twinge like a muscle spasm but he’s usually too quick for her for even that. He’d go translucent and her claws would go right through him, so the threat’s lost some of its zeal over the years. Plus, his hands feel so good in her hair that she doesn’t want him to stop. But she’s been avoiding that, too.

That’s probably why she’s so especially pissed off lately. Because she wants Theon to touch her but she _doesn’t_ because it’s not enough and what’s she supposed to do with that, ask for more? She can’t do that. She’s tired (and annoyed and wistful and _achy_ ), not insane.

It’s just that… it’s _Theon_ , with his bright soft eyes and softer hair and his big stupid grin and his bursts of laughter and the way he’ll oh-so-casually float along beside her because he’s got a habit of stepping on her toes when he keeps his feet on the ground and that funny little tingle that shoots down her spine when he sneaks up behind her, invisible, and blows his sharp spearmint breath behind her ear or when he walks through her as a joke but she can _feel it_ and oh, seven hells, but does it feel _good_ , and all sorts of other Theon things.

 _Ugh_ , she’s just miserable over him. The moon’s nothing compared to stupid beautiful charming disarming distractible damnable —

“Boo.”

Sansa’s too up in her own morose grouchiness to even flinch. Theon’s suddenly floating cross-legged above the coffee table in front of her, grinning, and she glares at him because everything is his fault and he won’t even kiss her to make up for it so why is he even _here_?

“You’re so annoying,” she grumps into her coffee mug. “Go away.”

He sticks his tongue out at her. “Make me.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, and picks thoughtfully at the corner of his upper lip (like that’s not going to preoccupy Sansa for the rest of the day, gods, he’s inconsiderate). “I don’t actually want to leave so I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“I thought ghosts were supposed to go away when they’re told to.” She lifts an inquisitive brow. “Isn’t that the rule?”

“Not when I’ve got unfinished business.”

“And what’s that?”

“Dunno.” Another shrug, followed by that wicked smirk that makes her body tremble and ache in a way that’s nothing to do with her monthly transformation. “Grabbing your arse, probably? Never done that before. Seems like enough to keep me around.”

Sansa aims a kick at him, but he grabs her ankle to stop her. Even through her thick woolen socks she can feel the coolness of his skin, a distinct contrast to her own overheated body (which is also his fault, her temperature skyrockets whenever he’s around, it’s all very physical, visceral, _maddening_ ).

“Is it your time of the month?” Theon chides her when she gnashes her teeth at him. He’s still holding her ankle.

“That joke wasn’t funny when we were fifteen and it’s not funny now,” Sansa gripes. “It might be even less funny now, actually, if it’s possible to be.”

“Will you think I’m funny if I rub your back for you?”

“What’s funny about that?”

“Nothing, I just thought I’d barter my magic hands for a self-esteem boost.” He wriggles his fingers at her. “Do you want them or not?”

 _Ooooh, yes_ , she does. She’d like them for much more than what he’s offering, as usual, but now that he’s asked her she can’t imagine giving up another excuse to avoid it anymore. It’s been ages since anyone’s touched her and ages longer since she’s wanted anyone but Theon to.

She hasn’t got the willpower to deny his offer, not when he’s already stroking up her calf and he’s looking at her like that and he’s… who he is. She shakes out of his grip to get her head on straight, but she sets aside her coffee too and tells him, “Well, if you insist.”

“Ah-ah-ah, not so fast.” Theon clicks his tongue. “You have to say it first.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m dead clever and also handsome.”

Sansa scoffs. “I never said you weren’t _handsome_.”

“Never said I _was_ , either, did you?”

“Fine.” She sighs, like she’s quite put out by all this when in fact she’s willing to tell him whatever he’d like because, gods, what a smile he’s got when she does. “Theon, you’re dead clever and also handsome.”

“How handsome?”

“Inordinately. No,” she hurries to correct herself, though he’s already smiling but she’s got something better. “Belligerently.”

He’s positively beaming at her now. Her skin sizzles.

“Go on, then.” He ushers her towards the other end of the couch, where it tapers off into a chaise seat. “Your sweet talk’ll get you my magic hands wherever you want them.”

Oh, _why_ does he have to say things like that? Sansa doesn’t quite manage to bite off her whimper before it’s escaped. Theon looks at her quickly when she does, but then she clears her throat and pretends nothing’s happened. She should have more self-control, but the animalistic tendencies can’t be helped. She’s not half so bad as Robb when he fancies someone, but it’s hard to be, her brother’s ridiculous, and by now she’s proven herself to be just as pathetic.

Theon would be thrilled to know it, because it would give him a reason to tease her mercilessly for the next century or two or three or four. This is difficult enough as is; she couldn’t bear any more.

“On your front for me, then, love,” he urges her further. She has to be imagining the husk in his voice, Sansa’s sure of it, but it makes her skin prickle all the same.

She does as he bids, skin still crawling and sparking energy and crackling when his cold hands settle on her shoulders to start. She sucks in a deep breath, sharp but measured, and clings to the throw pillow beneath her head, all the while thinking —

_Fuck the full moon._

*****

**BRAN** : _typing…_

 **BRAN** : Oh, no.

 **ARYA** : OH YEAH

 **BRAN** : This is why I smoke so much weed.

 **ARYA** : light up, baby bro.  
the bang-a-lang’s about to begin!!

 **BRAN** : Don’t I bloody well know it.

*****

He really can’t blame the soup for this. He did this to _himself_.

It’s a good thing Theon doesn’t need to breathe, because he’s certain he wouldn’t be able to now. There’s always a phantom pang in his chest whenever he works out the tension in Sansa’s back muscles — a casualty of lycanthropy — but it’s worth it to get his hands on her. Even if he needed to breathe, he’d give it up to touch her.

Of course, to do that he doesn’t actually need to be sitting on her like he is, thighs straddling her hips and he’s perhaps (read: _absolutely_ ) too close to her arse — close enough for his cock to take note of it, that’s clear already — but he’d just wanted to be near her. She hasn’t asked him for this in… months, or at least it’s felt that long. He’s starved for her.

She’s warm underneath him, soft. Her bare skin’s probably softer still, he knows she bathes in some warm milk-and-honey recipe Arya concocted for her, to soothe her weary bones when the moon’s coming back ‘round.

Not that he needs to be thinking about her in the bath right now. But…

Well.

_Ahem._

He shifts a bit and keeps his hands safely at her shoulders.

He did this to himself and it’s _painful_ and somehow he’s still not sorry for it.

 _Breathe_ , Theon reminds himself, because even though he doesn’t need to it provides a welcome distraction from the stirring he feels everywhere but his useless lungs. Times like this he almost wishes his cock were useless, too — _almost_ , but he remains ever hopeful — but if he’s honest with himself it doesn’t matter because he’d want her, anyway.

Her socks and sweatpants are thick, but her shirt’s worn and thin, practically threadbare. It makes Theon’s mouth go dry.

“Could you go a bit lower?”

That makes his mouth go _really_ dry. He does his best to hide it, assures her “‘Course I can” and circles his fingertips across her shoulder blades and down her spine. Her shirt is downy and wrinkles beneath his ministrations. There’s a hole he hadn’t noticed before, next to her left arm; a bit of black lace peeks out. He wants to lick it — nip at it, snap it against her skin.

_Fuck fuck fuckity fuck._

His impulse control’s never been much to speak of, but this is getting out of hand. This must be what happens when you bottle up your feelings for tens upon tens of years, and then the girl you’re after lets you on top of her for an innocent enough reason but your libido has no concept of _innocence_ so now all you can think about is licking her.

Seven hells, but he wishes it was just the soup. Soup can’t break his heart, but not being allowed to kiss her _does_.

“Under the shirt’s alright,” Sansa invites, and if he weren’t dead already that would have killed him, easy. “Preferable, actually, if you would. I’ve been especially tight lately.”

 _Oh, I bet you are, babe…_ He has to consciously keep himself from saying it, but he’s already thought it which means he can’t stop the terribly inconvenient twitch in his pants.

She lifts a bit to help him ruck her shirt up and out of the way (and if she feels his half-hard cock nudge her bum, for whatever merciful reason she doesn’t wallop him for it). He gets a look at a little more of that lace now, and skims his fingers just beneath it. Sansa’s grip tightens on her pillow. He wonders if that means something, and then he wonders how he could get her to do that with his hair.

He’s really got to quit wondering shit like this.

But then he touches her and _all_ he’s wondering is shit like that.

Her skin is hot, and her muscles tense further when his rough, cold hands touch her with nothing in-between. She makes a noise, something like a groan that breaks off into a hiss out between her teeth.

Theon smooths his hands down her back, pressing gently as he goes. “This alright?”

“Yeah — yes, it’s —” He feels her shudder, feels her get hotter when his hands continue to roam. “Keep going.”

If that’s what she wants, then he won’t ever stop. They have millennia to look forward to. He might as well live his best afterlife, right, and what’s better than mapping his hands across Sansa Stark’s bare skin? What’s better than those little mewls of pleasure she’s letting him hear? Better than the arch of her hips? Her hot smooth skin, freckles scattered like stars, the gradual release of her muscles as he rubs all that tightness away?

He’s a fucking immortal and even still this is the most magic he’s ever felt.

It makes him lose his mind a little.

When he sweeps his hands up her sides, he pushes her shirt up a bit further, strokes his thumbs over the sides of her bralette, and she lets out a breathy little moan. Her legs angle up behind him and her toes curl against his back and she sighs when he touches her again, more purposefully this time — “ _Oh_ , Theon —”

“Good?” he wants to know, though the undulation of her hips has answered him well enough. He scrapes his thumbnails lightly over that swatch of lace. “You want more?”

He doesn’t know what’s come over him, what madness has seized him. Maybe it’s the heat of her skin or the way she’s trying to find her breath, or maybe it’s just that he fucking _wants her_ , so bad and for so long and it’s more than he can take, and he wants to give her more.

 _“Yes.”_ She’s panting into the cushions, a flush creeping over her, and it makes Theon just as hot. “Yeah, Theon, touch me, please —”

“Fuck yes.” He grasps her waist and flips her over, shoves her legs apart so he can get between them, dives for her mouth and takes it with his own, all fervor and fever and want.

It’s decades in the making, this kiss — a conclusion to all that hopeless pining and desperate aching, and a beginning to something that’s _more_ and all that either of them have ever wanted from the other, _with_ the other.

It’s not the way he’d imagined it, the way he thought would best romance her whenever he let himself hope, those occasions wherein be believed that he could. It’s not slow and soft and steady and it doesn’t happen after sweet white wine somewhere with twinkling lights. But it’s _happening_ , it _is_ , and that counts for all the world more than whatever he could have planned otherwise.

_I’m kissing her she’s kissing me and and and —_

There’s nothing else besides.

Sansa’s fingers thread through his curls the way he’d fantasized about, she twists and pulls them tight and makes him kiss her deeper. His own hands tear her shirt in two — it comes apart easily, like this is what it’s been made for — and cup her tits, squeezing a little too roughly but it makes her moan, and it tastes like whiskey on his tongue, like _heat_. She’d wanted him to touch her and Theon’s going to give her everything she asks for, anything she tells him to do.

He grinds against her, following the seeking movements of her hips, thrusting gently to give her the friction she’s looking for and himself some relief. She presses close to him, so that he can feel every curve and angle of her body. She whimpers into every stroke of his tongue alongside hers and he swallows each and every one greedily.

Being a ghost isn’t anything to fuss about, really, but he can’t remember the last time he felt this much _alive_.

He kisses down her neck, so eager that it becomes sloppy, but Sansa seems to like it — back arched, hands clawing down his back, toes curling against his hips as he works her through their clothes — so he licks a stripe up her throat and takes her mouth again. Their teeth crash and she sucks on his bottom lip so hard it makes his eyes cross.

“Full moon got you feeling frisky, babe?” he mutters, smirking into the kiss. His fingers dance down to toy with the string of her sweats. “Need me to take care of that for you?”

Sansa’s eyes are bright and dark as she looks at him, a touch annoyed but mostly, he thinks, turned on. “Smug isn’t a good look on you, you know.”

Well, it’s hard _not_ to be now, Theon reasons to himself when his gaze shifts pointedly to her heaving chest. “No? That why you’re trying to get my shirt off?”

It takes her a moment to think of what to say to that. She can’t very well deny it, she’s got one hand in his hair and the other’s bunched his shirt midway up his back. Her palm’s like a hot iron branding his spine and it’s making him mad for her.

She gives in with a smile and a huff of laughter that makes him want to kiss her neck again, busy himself with the hollow behind her ear. When he does, her laugh breaks into a moan and she asks, “If I say yes, would you take me to my room and do whatever it is you’ve obviously been thinking about?”

He doesn’t bother correcting her. He _has_ been obvious, regardless of how he’d tried to bottle it all up. If that can all come undone over a bowl of soup, well, he hadn’t been doing such a bang-up job to begin with.

“Only if we can do whatever it is you’ve obviously been thinking about, too,” he agrees with a grin.

_“Obviously.”_

“Well, then —”

He’s up off the couch in a blink, floating comfortably cross-legged again because his knees buckled as soon as Sansa kissed him and it’ll be a good while longer before he can walk properly again. She’s in his lap, legs swinging off the side of one of his, arms around his neck so she doesn’t fall. He’s holding her too tight to let her, though.

“Guess we’ll be a bit busy for the next…” He quirks a brow in question as he floats them out of the lounge and down the corridor.

“Few days, at least,” Sansa supplies distractedly as she nuzzles into his neck, breathing deep and dropping kisses that make him shiver.

“I was thinking decades, but” — Theon grins when she chuckles — “we can start off slow.”

Things don’t, as it turns out, go particularly slow once he’s got her in her bedroom, door shut and locked behind them and nothing else to do ‘til the full moon rises the night after tomorrow.

But the lead-up had gone slow enough, Theon thinks as he yanks at Sansa’s joggers and kisses up the insides of her thighs. They can go fast as they like now, and save the slow for another time.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all, to mix a few drops of love potion into their next batch of soup.

*****

**BRAN** : I know there’s a revised wolfsbane potion out there that subdues your outlandish sexual virility and I am going to sign my trust fund over to Arya to get her to make it for you.

 **SANSA** : Bran, I’m so sorry.

 **BRAN** : You’re not that sorry.

 **SANSA** : _typing…_

 **SANSA** : Alright, fine, I’m not sorry that it happened but I AM sorry you have to… deal with all that.

 **BRAN** : Sigh. It’s not your fault. It’s Mum and Dad’s for not raising us to be a dysfunctional family. The only reason I get all these twinges from all of you is because we have a strong emotional bond.  
Utter bullshit, but there you have it.

 **SANSA** : A wholesome family dynamic spoiled by sexual politics.

 **BRAN** : Werewolf sexual politics, to boot. You’re the worst, and I’ve got to deal with four of you.

 **SANSA** : DISCRIMINATION.

 **BRAN** : I’m not DISCRIMINATING, it’s just a fact, and I have the emotional scars to prove it.

 **SANSA** : How does Robb usually make it up to you?

 **BRAN** : Well, he tried to buy me pot once but turns out it was a bag of oregano, so now he just buys me new crystals and such when I need them.

 **SANSA** : Send me a list.

 **BRAN** : Already emailed it to you.

 **SANSA** : Ta, love.

*****

**THEON** : absolutely you will NOT convince arya to mix that bullshit wolfsbane for sansa just to strip her of her sexual appetites

 **BRAN** : ^^^ THIRSTY.

 **THEON** : ^^^ SELFISH.

 **BRAN** : It won’t ‘strip her’ of anything. It’ll just mellow her out a little.

 **THEON** : NO

 **BRAN** : For gods’ sakes, Theon.

 **THEON** : i don’t have time to argue with you rn

 **BRAN** : Yeah, I could tell.  
Which is the ENTIRE PROBLEM.

 **THEON** : first you won’t let me eat the doritos  
now you won’t let me fuck the shit out of your sister  
WHERE DOES IT END, BRAN

 **BRAN** : With me throwing myself off a cliff, probably.

 **THEON** : that means nothing to me  
you’d be fine, bird boy

 **BRAN** : I prefer ‘Bran the Birdman,’ thanks.

 **THEON** : and i prefer to keep myself busy between sansa’s legs  
so i guess we’ve come to an impasse

 **BRAN** : I’m gonna block your number and smoke myself out.

 **THEON** : probably for the best

*****

**BRAN** : I know this was inevitable, anyway, but I’m still blaming it on your soup.

 **ARYA** : i accept.

 **ARYA** : ~ i told the witch doctor i was in love with you, do-do-do ~  
~ and the witch doctor, she told me what to do ~  
~ she said — ~

 **BRAN** : Sigh.  
~ Ooo eee, ooo ah ah, ting tang, walla walla, bing bang ~

 **ARYA** : ~ OOO EEE OOO AH AH  
TING TANG  
WALLA WALLA  
BING BANG!!!! ~

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: i have so many other little plot bunnies hopping around my head that didn’t quite suit this oneshot, but this was so much fun that i’ll be keeping this universe open to add stories whenever they strike my fancy!


End file.
